


Circe

by Z_Publicizes



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst and Smut, F/M, Post-Episode: s13e19 Funeralia, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-30
Updated: 2018-04-30
Packaged: 2019-04-30 05:07:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 757
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14489463
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Z_Publicizes/pseuds/Z_Publicizes
Summary: He kisses her with an earnestness that could almost break her heartA snippet of Sam/Rowena smut. Post-13x19.





	Circe

He kisses her with an earnestness that could almost break her heart, if only she lived in some fairy tale where hearts do break, and even then, it would have to be one in which she had a different role to play; one where she didn't wear the figurative tacky black hat or the six-inch sharp stilettos, her dress virginal pink instead of this evening's sour apple green: her favorite shade in recent decades, the color of money and envy and the thumb which is the great secret to any natural-born witch's success.

He kisses her like he doesn't want her dead even a wee little bit, not even for simplicity's sake; like he never had a smidge of interest in putting a bullet between her eyes. Not, (or so she's read in trashy pulp prose that did nonetheless inflame her imagination when she got to the dirty bits, and did perhaps somewhat inspire this seduction), that it would be the first time he's done so to a lover (a bean bhàsail, as her first mistake, may the fucking bastard drown in pig shit forever, once called her), a woman on the wrong side of the line that men will always draw between the Penelopes and the Circes, the Jadises and the Lucys, the Rubys and the Jessicas of this world. Not a woman you could ever come home to, and men, poor babes, will always crave that home and hearth and womb, and will always blame the woman who reminds them that they also crave the wandering and the wild and the wicked.

Or perhaps he is unlike other men and weighs her soul with eyes unclouded by desire or prejudice. Perhaps he simply means the things he says concerning redemption, if nothing else. She laughs internally to think it, a dull chuckle that creaks in her bones and for that moment makes them feel their age, when they should be moldering in boggy black earth. Then he kisses her again and her mouth opens wide and wanting under his and she presses her tongue into the hollow behind his teeth, digs in her nails against the broad bone of his wrist. He moans into her mouth and she rakes a hand through his hair, scratching slow and deep along the back of his neck. He kisses her neck, hands pulling her in at the waist and moving slow and sure and easy down the slope of her back, a touch of fearful urgency as he grips the curve of her ass, hiking her skirt beneath his hands. Her hand, she finds, is on his chest again, his chest rising and falling fast as fear, her thumb ticking idly over the buttons on the hideous shirt she should do him the favor of ripping, but doesn't.

He fucks her on the library floor so as not to disturb the books drunkenly sprawling and flopping across every table, which is wise as some of those books are dangerous and easily stimulated by blasphemous language and bodily fluids. He fucks her like he is trying to anchor her firmly to the ground, her bare shoulder blades burning against the rug's fibers, little pin prick stings that play against the hard friction between her thighs, the hot burn of her muscles as he tugs her legs wider. He's not callous but he has the tact not to be too careful either, not to tip his hand to any knowledge of her vulnerabilities, fleshly or arcane. She hisses in pleasurepain when he goes too deep, knits his hips to hers and presses down, grinding into her. He's as heavy as she anticipated on top of her, a dull, thick weight that settles more comfortably than she expected it to.

There's no warning before he comes, just his hands sliding up under the crooks of her knees to lift her hips, forcing an angle that makes her nails tear up carpet fibers, and no helping thinking of an unexpected gunshot when she sees that flash of surprise and tender guilt on his face, immediate braiding of the two like a lovelock in her memories.

He pulls her orgasm out with his clever fingers, his cock still thick inside of her. She closes her eyes when she comes, but she can still feel him watching her, the heat of his eyes on her face, the quiet yearning heat of one who is trying to hold another in their gaze for keeps, as his cock twitches deep in the mess between her thighs.


End file.
